


A shot in the dark

by Nejinee



Series: 2 lovestruck idiots and a dog [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Pets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-08-14 14:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20193430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nejinee/pseuds/Nejinee
Summary: It's not enough that they have an adorable dog. No, now they have a zany feral cat running wild in their home and this time Steve's not sure even Bucky can tame this beast.





	1. Chapter 1

Steve looked at the clock above the oven. It was late. Past midnight and Bucky wasn’t home. Obviously he was out walking Blueberry, judging by the missing furball and her leash, but still. The house was so quiet, so empty without the two of them. Who knew a dog and one man could make so much mess and noise.

When Steve had woken to find his two best friends missing, he had resorted to brewing late-night decaf. He wouldn’t fall asleep until they were home safe, so coffee was a decent time-waster.

He was watching the brew sit and stew in the french press. He knew by now that decaf coffee had traces of caffeine but he wasn’t too worried. It’s not like it was the caffeine that would kill him eventually. No, the way his life was going, he was certain death would take the form of an icy patch of stairs and a long drop, head-first.

Bucky hated when he got morbid. Steve always had a nihilistic view of the world, but it was funny to him. His ma was like that, sharp and brittle but warm all at once.

Bucky said he was dead inside since coming out of the ice. Jokes on him, because Steve’s been dead inside since 1927. It’s in his DNA: assume the worst and work around it with a grim smile and a can-do attitude.

Paired with Bucky’s rusty personality and dry humor, they were a right pair of old sods.

Compared to the two of them, Blueberry was like fireworks on New Years eve, all pep and sparkle and glow.

Steve stared at the coffee press. The silence stretched out around him. He was glad he didn’t have to live here alone. Small condo apartments made sense in a world where people could be alone for eighteen hours a day.

God, he hadn’t even turned the kitchen lights on. He was doing that ‘dramatic bitch’ thing Bucky accused him of. So what if he liked to walk in the rain sans umbrella? So what if he’d cracked that coffeehouse table that one time just to prove a point to that narcissistic fuck who’d bleated on about the MeToo movement encroaching on his workplace humour? So what? He could be dramatic if he wanted.

The ticking of the clock was loud.

He turned to the fridge, considering his cream and milk options. Sugar after midnight? Sure, why not?

Something flashed in his periphery.

Steve spun around, hands immediately going to fists.

He stared across their kitchen. No one was there. He turned slowly on his heel.

He calmed his breathing. Maybe it was nothing.

He was getting paranoid. That was obviously Bucky’s job, duh.

He decided to check. He walked around the kitchenisland and over to the french door that faced their tiny backyard. Because the kitchen lights were off, he could just make out the grubby concrete and plants and patio furniture. He squinted into the shadows. Nothing.

He sighed and turned back.

Something white slid across the floor and behind the island. Skittering noises followed.

“Jesus _fuck_,” Steve gasped and leapt over the island without thinking. What was he gonna do? Land on the thing? Squish it to death with his bare feet and his knobbly knees?

Nothing was there. But there were sounds, tapping, rustles that were short and quick. The hair on Steve’s neck rose sharply and he wondered if their house was haunted.

Trust them to buy a damn home with the re-energized spirit of some dead bastard. He did not have time for this. He was Captain-fucking-America and he was _not _terrified by the thought of incorporeal beings swanning in, about and around his person.

Was the room cold? Was the dead rising? Had the end of times finally arrived? God, his catholic scripture was coming back to him in waves.

A hissing scratch sounded and he yelped. Again, something bright sparked in his peripheral vision.

“What the fuck is happening?” he exhaled through his teeth, trying to calm his thumping heart. He tip-toed awkwardly, unsure of what to do. He was fine. This was fine. Nothing could hurt him. Maybe it was a prank. Maybe it was Tony. Maybe it was some grim reaper come to harvest his organs.

“Yeep!” he squealed when he rounded the island and came face-to-face with a couple of black blobs in a white splotch staring up at him from behind the lower cabinet. The blob hissed.

Steve leapt back and then the clattering of the side door made him look up, heart fluttering wildly.

Skittering sounds accompanied the incoming mess and bustle of Blueberry and Bucky.

Steve didn’t know how to warn either of them, his voice was all caught up in his throat. They were all doomed. There was a devil in their kitchen. It was going to pluck out their eyes and suck their souls out via paper straws (save the environment, guys). Blueberry was too young and Bucky was too cute to die like this.

The kitchen light flared on and Steve blinked owlishly.

Bucky stood there, leash in hand.God, he was handsome, all big and strong and _there._

“Steve, what are you doing on the kitchen counter?”

Steve blinked again. Then looked down. _Huh._ He was perched on the countertop, balanced on his toes, as though he’d merely hopped up there to pause and reflect on the world.

“There’s something in here,” Steve said.

Bucky froze, immediately going into high-alert mode. “What?”

“A thing, a demon, maybe a devil. We’re living with a spirit, Bucky. I saw it.”

Bucky frowned and lowered his tightened fists. “Okay…” He shucked off his jacket, leaving just his grey t-shirt. It was a bit snug under the armpits.

He glanced around the very normal-looking room before his eyes made their way back to Steve. “Not to be judgy, you are an independently modern man of the world and all… but what the fuck have you been smoking?”

Blueberry snuffled around the room, dragging her leash along with her. Bucky had already kicked offhis boots. He bent to unhook her from the leash. She circled his feet a couple times, like a ritual of thanks.

“There’s something in this house, with us,” Steve said slowly. “Maybe a ghost.” He said it so matter-of-factly that he was appalled at the face Bucky made, clearly doubting Steve’s word. How dare Bucky not listen to him? He was being serious!

“You’re tired,” Bucky said, coming around the island. Steve went tense. Bucky didn’t seem to see anything out of the ordinary. No white blobs attacked him and nothing moved, or made a sound.

Blueberry snuffled across the floor, her furry butt swaying as she walked.

“I know it’s late, but sleep-walking ain’t safe, pal,” Bucky sighed and came over to Steve. He gently coaxed him down onto the floor, hands under Steve’s armpits, like he was some wayward kid who got himself stuck in a tree.

“I wasn’t sleep-walking, jackass,” Steve said, bare feet touching down on the cool tile.

Blueberry yipped.

Both men turned to look at her. She was snuffling and pawing at the gate to her dog crate. Inside was a myriad of stuffed toys and one of Steve’s socks, poking awkwardly through the metal as if calling out for help.

Blueberry backed up and bounced on her front paws, over and over while panting loudly. She yipped again. He oversized ears flapped forward and backward.

Bucky looked at Steve.

Steve looked back at him.

A hissing sound cut through Blueberry’s huffing and stomping.

“Oh my God,” Bucky breathed and immediately walked around the kitchen to come up behind Blueberry. “I swear to God, Steve, if you let in a fucking skunk I’m gonna kill you.”

“_Why_ would I do that?” Steve scowled and followed Bucky. The two of them watched Blueberry who was, perhaps, the bravest of them all. She shook her head, tongue lolling and yipped and huffed and danced about. More hissing emanated from her overstuffed crate.

“There’s an animal in there,” Bucky said.

“Or a ghost,” Steve muttered, realizing maybe Bucky was right and he was, in fact, an idiot. “The incorporeal undead.”

“Fuck, what if it’s a raccoon,” Bucky chewed his lip. He reached behind Steve to snatch at a tea towel. He wrapped his flesh hand in the towel. “You think rabies can still get me?”

Steve thought about that. “Maybe. Can’t imagine Hydra tested rabid raccoons on anyone.”

“You never know,” Bucky sighed as he crouched low, trying to see into the crate. “They were ahead of their time in experimental torture. Innovation comes in all speculative reviews and commendations.”

Blueberry advanced on the crate, then backed off as another hiss spewed forth.

“Ah, hell,” Bucky huffed gently, now lowered close enough to the ground he could lick the tiles. Steve tried not to admire the way Bucky’s ass jutted into the air, yet he was but a mere mortal and Bucky’s ass wasn’t anything to dismiss. “There’s a little fella in there.”

“A what?” Steve asked.

“A cat,” Bucky sighed, sitting up on his knees. “How the fuck did a cat get inside our kitchen, Steve?”

“A cat,” Steve repeating.

Bucky looked up at him. “Yes, Steve. _A cat._” He seemed beyond exasperated. It was late, though. “Did you leave the back door open again?”

“How the fuck would I know how a feral cat got into our house? I’m not the fuckin’ animal-whisperer over here. That’s your job.”

“I ain’t never seen a white fuckin’ cat in or around these parts, Steve, so you can just shut that hole in your stupid face.”

“You’ve never complained about this hole before,” Steve said.

Bucky rolled his eyes.

They watched Blueberry sniff and shuffle across the tiles on her belly. It seemed she thought the intrepid hunter’s approach might work. Alas, she was too jolly and too excited to slink close enough without making far too much noise. She therefore incurred the wrath of whatever demon was in her bed.

“You’d think the thing would avoid the dog bed, don’t you?” Steve sighed. “Smells and all of that?”

“It’s probably scared shitless,” Bucky said, getting to his feet. “C’mon, we can lure it out. We got the time.”

* * *

An hour later and they were no closer to getting the cat in hand. After Bucky had tried to scoop it out, the white ball of claws and fangs had zoomed out of the kitchen and run blindly around their home like it was on fire.

The shrieking hissing wasn’t helping.

Steve had tried valiantly to grab it at one point, but it had zipped right up and over him, leaving a slew of clawmarks in its path.

Right now they were standing at the bottom of the stairs , eyes turned up toward the banister where a pair of bright yellow eyes peered at them. In the darkness, the creature didn’t look wholly natural.

“He’s so small,” Steve exhaled.

“He’s a shit, is what,” Bucky grumped.

“Okay,” Steve wiped a hand over his hair. “So I might have left the door open.”

Bucky paused. “You said you didn’t leave the back door open,” he said, voice eerily calm.

“I didn’t,” Steve sighed, chest expanding. “I left the front door open. It was a nice day, okay? The birds were cheeping and the air was refreshing. It mighta scooted in.”

Bucky turned to him. “You had our front door open to the wild?”

“It’s Brooklyn, Bucky, not the Sumatran jungle.”

“You left our home _exposed_–” Bucky hissed but was cut off by Blueberry pawing at his ankle.

He bent down and picked her up. She rumbled and chuffed at him, her big brown eyes flicking affectionately.

“She’s probably tired,” Steve said, feeling exhausted himself. He looked up at the banister again. The feral monster was still glaring at them. “So how are we gonna fix this? Open the door and shoo it out?”

Bucky glared at him. “We’re not kicking it out into the street. It came inside for a fucking reason. Maybe it was running from something. Maybe it’s scared. Maybe it’s lost.”

Steve tilted his head. That was true. “So we what? Barricade ourselves in the bedroo until morning?”

“Hmm,” Bucky pressed his face into Blueberry’s fur, thinking. “Let’s put out some food and water and hope for the best. Thing’s probably hungry.”

So they put out a saucer of wet dog food, the kind Bucky kept for a rainy day. They placed it on the island in the kitchen and filled up a saucer of water too. Maybe the smell would entice the tiny creature down to the ground floor and they could figure the rest out later.

Bucky did his nightly round of checks, eyeing Steve as he turned the locks on the front door. Steve rolled his eyes. It wasn’t as if some random soccer mom was going to come barging in with a bloody machete. _Sheesh._

They couldn’t readily get to their bedroom without spooking the cat, so the two of them just flopped one on top of the other on their oversized sofa. It was a warm enough night that they didn’t need a blanket.

Blueberry, who had been fascinated by their visitor, mirrored them by dropping onto the dogbed they kept in the living room. She rolled onto her back, tiny paws skyward, and promptly fell asleep.

“Here’s hoping we don’t wake up with our eyes scratched out,” Bucky muttered into the crook of Steve’s neck.

Steve shifted, wrapping his arm around Bucky, corralling him into the back of the sofa. Snug.

“I’d still like you even if you had no eyeballs.”

“Thanks, pal. Feeling’s mutual.”


	2. chapter 2

Steve awoke to the sound of crashing and barking coming from the kitchen. Bucky rolled off him like a sack of flour and hit the living room floor with a loud _thud_ and a groan.

Steve tried to get up but his left arm was numb from Bucky flattening it in his sleep. He sat up and watched Bucky get to his hands and knees, grumbling the whole time.

“Wha’ happened?” Steve asked, rubbing at his eye with a hand that felt tingles coming on already.

“Intruder,” Bucky said, and got to his feet like a creaky, rusted automaton.

“Really?” Steve blinked and stood up. Neither of them had even changed into pyjamas. Why?

A yowl from the kitchen had them both moving.

“Oh,” Steve breathed out when they crashed into one another at the entrance to the kitchen. “I forgot.”

“Cat,” Bucky said, pointing.

The wet dog food from the night before was spilled all over the floor and water was dripping down the kitchen island, pooling on the tiles. Steve’s idea to build a makeshift stepladder out of old delivery boxes seems to have worked like a charm. 

The white splotch of rage (cat) was hissing at them. Then it looked over the edge of the countertop and hissed at Blueberry who was diligently mopping up the stinky wet food, like the true hoover she was. 

“Eurgh,” Bucky whined and dragged one hand down his face, tugging his skin down and making himself about 0.2% less handsome. “What were we thinking?”

“When do we ever think?” Steve sighed and placed one hand on his hip, and punched his own side with the other, numb, appendage.

Bucky glanced down as Steve shook out the fingers on that hand. “What’s happening here?”

“Slept on it funny,” Steve said with a smile followed up with a grimace.

“Hmmm,” Bucky eyed the flapping hand, a twinkle in his eye.

“Don’t even think about it,” Steve huffed, pointing a finger at Bucky’s face.

Bucky snorted and walked around the island counter.

The blob of white fur was almost perfectly spherical, having pulled its feet and ears inwards so all its vile displeasure radiated out of its big yellow eyes and mouth. It followed Bucky as he walked around, rotating like a cupcake on display.

“We gotta take it to the vet, huh?” Steve said.

Bucky made his way round the island and came to stop where Blueberry was licking up the last of the wet food the cat must have thrown to the floor in apoplectic rage.

To be fair, it hadn’t looked or smelled very appetizing.

“Probably,” Bucky sighed.

He bent down and hoisted Blueberry into his arms. She made an attempt at licking his face and he leaned away. “No, don’t even. Disgusting.”

Blueberry huffed happily then gazed over at the cat currently holding court on the kitchen counter. She whuffed softly.

Bucky walked back to Steve and the three of them stared at the round claw-monster still hissing at them. 

“How’re we gonna get it to the vet?” Steve asked.

“You’re a goddamn super-serumed genius, ain’tcha?” Bucky growled, leaning into him, “You can figure something out.”

“Right,” Steve sighed, “because I have experience wrangling wild animals into–_OW! JESUS, Bucky!_” He turned to smack at the man’s side.

Bucky grinned and hopped away, letting Steve’s painfully buzzing arm go, after having squeezed and shaken it, like the idiotic child he was.

The pins and needles ricocheted up Steve’s arm and he wailed. “You’re such a jerk!”

Bucky winked from across the room, Blueberry yipping from his arms.

The feral cat joined in by hissing at Steve as well.

“Well, you fit in perfectly,” Steve said, brows high and hands on his hips.

* * *

Bucky had the idea of scooping the cat up the way he would with spiders. Steve was bad at getting bugs out of the house. His meat slab hands were overzealous when attempting delicate work. One time he accidentally smushed a butterfly with his hand and Bucky never let him live it down.

So Bucky’s method of attempting to put a box over the kitten was proving to be too much work; and trying to slide a piece of paper under it, thereby trapping the little guy, well, that wasn’t gonna happen either. They just couldn’t get close enough before the cat would fly at their faces and try to give them impromptu face-lifts.

So Steve improvised and let the little guy run into Blueberry’s crate, where he was able to slam the door shut and lock the beast inside.

To protect himself from scratches and teeth, Steve wrapped the whole crate with a blanket and tied a knot at the top so as to make carrying it easier.

The looks they got when they entered the vet’s centre were perhaps a little odd. 

The crate wasn’t small, not if it needed to fit a corgi, but because of the hissing and scratching sounds coming from its depths were loud and terrifying, it wouldn’t have surprised Steve to learn folks thought they’d brought in a wild wolverine.

Dr. Wen met them after twenty minutes of Steve trying to balance the crate on his knees while Blueberry snuffled around the vet’s office, greeting all the other animals and winding her leash around every chair and table leg available.

Bucky had to untangle the leash before following Steve and Dr Wen into one of the examination rooms.

“So,” Dr Wen murmured, eyeing the immense, badly wrapped package now sitting on the metal table. “What have you found?”

“It’s a cat,” Bucky muttered.

Steve unknotted the blanket and let it unravel, revealing the absolute hot mess that was the inside of Blueberry’s overstuffed crate. There were exactly four stuffed toys, a dog bed, two mangled chew toys, a sweet potato slice and one lone bootie that had been separated from its sibling months ago.

In the middle of this fracas sat the small white cat.

It was shaking and hissing.

“Oh,” Dr Wen pushed her glasses up her nose.

She inspected the creature through the metal wires. “Such a little kitten. Where did you find it?”

“Um,” Steve paused. “Well, you see-”

“It got into the house by itself,” Bucky said. “Won’t let us near it. We left food and water for it, but not sure if it ate any.”

“Hmm,” Dr Wen hummed. “Well, let’s get a look, shall we?”

Both men threw up their hands when she unlatched the lock.

“Wait!” Steve yelled. “It’ll attack!”

“It’s a real motherfucker!” Bucky added.

Dr Wen made a ‘seriously, let me do my job’ face and they both backed down.

She turned to rifle through one of the storage cabinets under the sink and pulled out a blanket with paw prints that must have seen many animals over many years, going by its faded colours.

“Let’s see what we can do,” she murmured, and laid the blanket over her flat palm, while opening up the crate door slowly. In what Steve would only describe as druid magic, she scooped up the yowling kitten and wrapped it up like a burrito in the blanket, leaving only its very unhappy face poking through the top.

“There we are, little one,” Dr Wen said matter-of-factly. She waved at the crate and Bucky hastily heaved it off the table and onto the floor.

Dr Wen looked the little cat over.

“Very young,” she said and gently inspected its face, eyes and ears and teeth. “But healthy,” she said.

“Really?” Steve’s eyebrows rose. 

“Cats are very resilient,” the doc said, carefully opening the bottom of the burrito so she could palpate the kitten’s belly and feet.

Blueberry hopped up onto her back paws and prodded at Bucky’s leg. 

Steve looked down at her wide brown eyes, and swore he could see concern in them. He knew it was strange to apply human emotion and intellect to their dog, but it was hard not to do when Blueberry was so obviously affectionate all the time.

“It’s okay,” Bucky bent to stroke the top of her head. “The kitten’s okay.”

Dr Wen did a few more tests before declaring the cat fairly fit.

“I think, if this little one hasn’t been living in a home, he’ll need vaccinations. He’s old enough to not require mother’s milk, but maybe he’s not yet used to what constitutes as ‘good food’ if he didn’t eat the food you put out.”

Steve nodded and turned to look at Bucky.

Bucky blinked, eyes wide. 

“It’s a _he_?” he said softly.

Oh...oh no.

“That he is,” Dr Wen said, perhaps recalling their first time with Blueberry. She smiled. “Do you have a name for him?”

Steve hadn’t even thought of it. He’d been too preoccupied with not getting his throat slashed to think of any endearing names for the monster cat.

Bucky shook his head.

“Well,” the doc said, “you'd best think of something soon. I’m going to head upstairs and do a quick blood test and fecal sample, if I can. Something tells me this guy needs to go.”

Bucky backed out of her way awkwardly, finding the wall at his back and Blueberry tangled yet again around his ankles.

He kicked the crate, creating a fresh array of new noises that startled the cat further.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Steve hushed and helped the doc get out of the room. “We’ll wait here.”

When he turned back to Bucky, he was bent down low, gently petting Blueberry.

“Hey,” Steve said. “It’s okay.” 

He crouched down beside Bucky. “Hey, it’s fine. The kitten’s fine.”

Bucky nodded, not looking at him. He needed a moment. Steve could wait. He could ask questions later. They were in public, so there was no point prodding for more details.

Bucky kept petting Blueberry, his large hand slowly sliding from her shoulders and down her back. Blueberry stared up at him with all the suns and stars in her eyes, like Bucky was anything and everything she would ever need.

What was Steve going to do with them?

* * *

The vet clinic was kinda enough to give them a cat carrier and a list of instructions for ‘how to look after your first kitten’.

They picked up some cat food on the way home, the kitten yowling and shrieking throughout the entire process. 

People on the street must have thought they were carrying the souls of the undead or something. As if said souls would want to be couriered around the city in a freakin’ plastic box with holes.

Once home, they set about planning the kitten’s new life with them.

“So we’re definitely keeping him?” Steve asked carefully as Bucky squeezed out some cat food into a small ceramic dish.

“Well…” Bucky said, focused on his task. “I mean, we can keep him for a while. Maybe he won’t like us?”

“Hmmm,” Steve nodded. “I’m about 70% certain he hates us already.”

Bucky didn’t argue the point, just focused on putting out a towel and food area for the cat.

They tried to put his food next to Blueberry’s but, well, _that_ didn’t go well.

“You fat, greedy princess,” Bucky said, exasperated. Blueberry licked her lips happily.

So they placed the cat food and water on the kitchen counter and made sure there were boxes for the cat to climb.

Dr Wen explained that cats were very athletic and could reach high places easily. It would prefer to eat in peace and not have Blueberry breathing down its neck.

Speaking of Blueberry; she was absolutely enamoured by the new roommate.

She constantly want to sniff it and look at it, even though the cat was hell-bent on biting her face off.

“I dunno,” Steve muttered, watchingBucky place the cat carrier on the counter and opening the door. “What if he hurts her?”

Bucky shrugged, “She’s a smart dog. One swipe should be enough to learn a lesson.”

Steve crooked a brow at that. “So that’s how we’re doing this? Trial by fire?”

The cat didn’t come out of the carrier. It just glared at them.

“Well, what else are we gonna do?” Bucky grunted. “We didn’t plan for this.”

Steve pulled Bucky in and kissed at his ear, then his jaw before Bucky’s hands found their way to his chest. He clung onto Steve’s shirt.

“You’re trying to distract me,” Bucky said.

“Obviously,” Steve mouthed at Bucky’s neck. “You don’t have to be mad about this.”

“I’m not mad,” Bucky said. “I just…I don’t know what to do about a cat.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Steve kissed Bucky’s jaw again. “Don’t you worry. And if we don’t the police will find our mangled bodies weeks after the kitten has killed us and eaten our organs.”

Bucky pressed his face against Steve’s. 

“You’re so smooth,” he smiled. 

* * *

That night they had to contend with more cat dramatics.

Steve realized that the creature was too scared to venture out of its carrier when they were in the kitchen. So he and Bucky steered clear and checked in every so often to see if any of the food and water was disappearing.

Turned out it wasn’t them that was ruining it, it was Blueberry. She kept vigil at the kitchen counter, choosing to stare up at the cat carrier right up until the point where Bucky had to heave her out of the room and blockade the door with a coffee maker and fruit juicer. That way he and Steve could still step over and into the kitchen, but Blueberry would be kept out so as to not anger the kitten.

“I don’t know if it’s ever gonna come out,” Steve whispered as he and Bucky peered around the kitchen doorframe.

“It’ll have to,” Bucky muttered. “It’s gotta pee and poop some time.”

They had set up a cat litter tray. Steve was absolutely blown away by the fact cats shat indoors and required super absorbent dirt to dig around in. 

“Maybe we can train Blewbs to use that stuff?” Steve hissed.

Bucky glared at him.

Bucky got pizza from the new fancy organic, gluten-free, vegan place down the road and they ate in the living room. 

Blueberry ate with them, though once finished she waggled over to the kitchen and hovered by the barricade, whining about her distant new best friend who hated her.

“She’s not very smart,” Steve said around a mouthful of mushroom spinach.

“She’s just emotionally attached,” Bucky retorted, leaning heavily into Steve’s side. 

“Clingy, you mean,” Steve said.

“Says the guy who wouldn’t let go of the assassin beating his face to a pulp.”

“Aw, our story!” Steve cooed and nuzzled at Bucky’s cheek.

“I live with idiots exclusively,” Bucky grunted fondly.

* * *

“You gotta tell him,” Sam said through the phone. “We leave in two days, man.”

Steve scrubbed at his face. He was in the bathroom staring at his own reflection, cellphone at his ear.

He’d needed the pep talk. 

“How the hell have you left this so long anyway?” Sam continued. “You’re not making smart decisions here.”

“I know, I _know,_” Steve huffed. “I just...didn’t want to.”

“Well, now you have to face your dumbass decision,” Sam said and Steve could see his friend’s face in his mind’s eye, eyebrows high and mouth full of judgement. “You could have been a grown-up and done this weeks ago, you know.”

“Yeah…” Steve stared at his reflection. He had to do this. Even if he didn’t want to, there was no getting around it.

He finished up the call, promising an update to Sam by the end of the day. “I’ll see if I can send something to help with the issue,” Sam said and left Steve wondering what the hell that meant.

He put his phone down and sat in the silence for a moment longer.

“You stupid idiot,” he said to himself, then opened the door.

Bucky was sitting on their bed, arms crossed.

Steve startled.

“What’s going on?” Bucky said, brow furrowed.

“You been listening in on my calls now?” Steve rolled his eyes, wishing he didn’t deflect in times like this, when it was clear he was very much in the hot seat.

“You think you’re stealthy and quiet? Bitch, _please_,” Bucky squinted, his disgust at Steve’s mediocre covert skills plainly evident.

Steve held in a breath. “Where’s Blewbs?” he asked.

“Don’t try to distract me, Rogers,” Bucky said. “What were you and Wilson gossiping about? You’ve been all weird this entire week. I saw you checking your phone at the vet.”

Steve made a face and wandered to their laundry hamper and began tucking the towel that was flopping out back inside.

“I have a mission,” Steve said. He turned to look at Bucky.

Bucky stared at him. “When?”

“In two days,” Steve said.

Bucky peered at him like he didn’t believe him. “Where?”

“Washington,” Steve said. “It’s not a major thing, I’m only gonna be gone a week.”

“A week,” Bucky said slowly. His hands twitched in the duvet cover under him.

“Yeah, it’ll be me, Sam and Nat,” Steve went on. “Hill’s heading it up and we should be good.”

“You expecting confrontation?” Bucky asked.

“No,” Steve said slowly. “Not _per se_.”

Bucky was silent.

“I mean,” Steve stammered, “it's not a guaranteed fight. It’s more of an undercover thing–”

“You? _Undercover?_” Bucky’s ire was plainly evident.

“Well, don’t sugar coat it,” Steve huffed. “Look, I meant to tell you, but then we got distracted.”

_“We?”_ Bucky said. “No, _you_ didn’t tell me because _I_ don’t _do_ missions anymore and this shit is important because who the _fuck_ is going to watch your back when you’re leap-frogging over Hydra scum and pirouetting off building rooftops?”

His voice was getting harder with every word.

“It’s not Hydra,” Steve held his hands up. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, “it's an AIM nuclear test site, is all.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed.

“Oh, _I see._ Just _nuclear arms_, huh? Just nuclear radiation, huh? Just what? A new-fangled way to get your body further irradiated out of existence? You want to actually become hamburger meat, don’t you?”

“Bucky–” Steve exhaled through his teeth. “Come on, you know I have to do these things.”

“_Do you_?” Bucky bit back. He glared at Steve for a moment then stood up and walked out of the room.

Steve stared at the open door and heard the sound of Bucky’s boots thudding downstairs.

“Crap,” he uttered to the empty bedroom. “I’m in the shit now.”

* * *

The next day should have involved Steve and Bucky working with the kitten to rehabilitate it. But Bucky wasn’t talking to him and Steve was left to look after feeding the cat again and cleaning out the litter.

“At least you used this thing,” he muttered to the empty room.

Because, of course, the cat was nowhere to be seen.

Bucky had grunted about it once Steve made it downstairs that morning, and then Bucky proceeded to turn the house inside-out looking for the kitten.

Blueberry thought this new game was just wonderful!

Watch daddy throw cushions around! Watch him crawl on the floor and check under the furniture! Watch him pull out some forgotten chew toys to play with! Watch him stomp up and down the stairs like a mad man on a mission! Joy!

By midday, Steve was certain the cat had made a run for it, clambered out a window or a vent or a gap in the drywall, and was heading for Manhattan to find its fortune. He continued to deflate as the morning wore on and Bucky continued to be mad at him.

At noon, the doorbell rang.

A Fedex guy stood there with a package and wide, shocked eyes.

Steve signed for the box and gently, but firmly closed the door in the megafan delivery guy’s face all while declaring that he, Captain America, was house-sitting for a friend, so don’t expect to see him here ever again.

“Crap, we gotta move now,” Steve grumbled and turned the small box over in his hands.

He tore it open, not in the mood to be cute about it.

Two vacuum-sealed _things_ fell onto the floor.

He could hear Bucky stomping around upstairs and the patter of Blueberry’s paws following him.

Steve bent down to pick the packages up.

Something smiled up at him.

He tore open the vacuumed plastic and pulled out the surprisingly squishy items.

Then he noticed the note.

_To Barnes,_

_all my fondest love_

_(heart scribbles and a drawing of a hand extending the middle finger),_

_Sam Wilson_

Steve frowned at the note, realizing he probably should have read it first.

He looked at the two things in his hands. They were flattened by the vacuum seal and the faces of the … cushion-like things were distorted and manic-looking, the smiles smushed and eery.

He placed them both on the front table and left them to … inflate, deflate, or whatever.

“Bucky!” he yelled up the staircase, “You got a delivery!”

The thundering upstairs halted.

Steve sighed and went back to cleaning out the cat’s personal toilet.

Now that there was no cat, perhaps they should reuse the cat litter? Maybe Steve– no, end that thought.

He would be lying if he said he wouldn’t miss the kitten. Sure, it hadn’t warmed up to them in the slightest, but it was small, and kind of a mess and maybe they could have worked things out, come to an agreement of sorts? Steve hated letting anything go without reason. Perhaps it would come back, or maybe it was still in the house, just hiding from them, the big scary cats that walked on hind legs?

He heard Bucky thudding down the stairs.

There was silence.

Steve put the plastic trowel sifter down and went back to the foyer.

Bucky was holding the cushions, one in each hand. Blueberry snuffled about the room, unbothered.

They weren’t very big, the items and they seemed to have expanded, at the very least.

“What the fuck are these?” Bucky grunted, not looking up.

Steve came over and shrugged, “I think they’re, like, soft toys?”

One of the cushiony toys was printed and cut out to look like an orange, white and grey splotched dog with a happy cartoon face, tongue lolling out. It had short, rounded legs and massive triangle ears.

“I think that’s meant to be Blueberry,” Steve said.

Bucky grunted and squeezed the plush toy. It was actually kinda cute now that it looked less like a dried out halloween prop.

The other doll, however, was printed and shaped to look like…a normal plush, rounded doll. It had a patch of yellow felt for hair, wide blue eyes and a friendly smile.

“Is…is that supposed…to be _me?_” Steve leaned in. He was going to murder Sam Wilson. This was_ not _funny.

Now that he could make out the features, it was clear the doll was Steve. It was wearing a tight grey t-shirt and loose blue jogging pants. Its round, blob-like feet were clad in white, drawn-on sneakers.

“He must have gone to a lot of trouble just to make that thing,” Steve sighed and rubbed his face. “Or maybe companies make them for you? I don’t know. What a waste of money.”

Bucky wasn’t speaking.

Then he looked at Steve.

“This one’s fine,” he held up the corgi pillow.

Steve nodded, wishing the air around them wasn’t so dense with frustration. “Guess he wanted to get you something nice. Keep you company.”

Bucky looked at the dog pillow, then hooked it under his arm and turned to head back upstairs.

Well, what was Steve supposed to expect? Sam must have anticipated this.

He knew how tetchy, how tense Bucky was about Steve leaving him alone to go on missions. It was why Steve rarely took them anymore. Bucky hated being left alone to worry and fret.

Steve turned to go back to whatever the fuck he was doing, when something whizzed past his head. He didn’t need to dodge, because Bucky wasn’t aiming for him. Bucky was the best sniper in the world, so it was with exact precision that he aimed.

The Steve plush doll hit the wall with a hard _thud_, putting an actual dent in the drywall_,_ and fell to the floor, still smiling smugly up at Steve as the drywall dust gently floated down after it.

Steve stared at it, the simplified drawing of his own face staring right back.

Oh, if only it could understand suffering, it wouldn’t be so inappropriately gleeful.

Bucky was already gone, Blueberry in tow.

“Point made,” Steve sighed. “Point fucking made.”


	3. Chapter 3

Steve rolled his sixth pair of socks into a tight ball then jammed it all the way into the back of his duffel bag. He would always pack more socks than anything else because he’d learnt, after so many missions_ and_ surviving the front, that there was sometimes nothing more sacred that dry, warm feet.

That’s what he always told the SHIELD team as well, every time they commented on his collection of misidentified round missiles. They didn’t get it, you see. No, they’d roughed it a couple weeks, max, with bad shoes and bad body odour. Clint thought he was tough after making it a week in the Amazonian rainforest with the snakes and the never-ending rain. Natasha wore the best performance shoes on earth and so didn’t suffer such atrocities, apparently.

They didn’t get it.

None of them had spent months wishing for God to just take them out by the ankles and be done with it all. Steve vividly recalled dreaming, during the winter of ’43, of buying an axe at whatever tiny town they came upon next and just hacking his feet off because stumps would fare better than whatever fresh nightmare was proliferating inside his very broken, very wet and very cold boots.

So he still packed too many pairs of socks. He glared at the duffel sitting on the bed. It was already fat and rounded. The fact he was even packing for a mission right now seemed ludicrous. It’s not like he _wanted_ to go on the mission!

God, he was only going to be gone a week, which was why he’d accepted it. After the fact, it sounded stupid. Was it even worth him being there? Why was he doing this? He had a perfectly warm and dry house to stay in with Bucky and all the snacks and blankets he would desire. So why do this?

He knew exactly why. Because he was supposed to. He couldn’t really, without regret, let Sam and Nat go on this gig without him. Who was going to be the one to take the hits and keep on running? That was his job, wasn’t it? To be the big brick shithouse that distracted the bad guys with the shiny metal plate and the star-spangled bullshit. He could distract the overbearing bad guys and give Sam and Nat the time they needed to slip in and get whatever it was they were there for.

It’s not like Steve took on many missions anymore, anyway. His last one had been eight months ago and that had been diplomatic suit-wearing nonsense Bucky got to watch on TV with Blueberry in his lap. Those gigs were easy.

Usually Bucky helped him pack because Bucky understood mass vs. volume better so he would puzzle-piece whatever Steve needed into a bag half the size of his current duffel, and somehow also squeeze in snacks, a book or two and a framed photo of Blueberry in her taco Halloween costume.

This time Steve was figuring this out himself because Bucky _still_ wasn’t talking to him.

Bucky’s anger was understandable, honestly. He really, really, didn’t like Steve taking jobs out of state anymore. It was one part stress at being the lone governor of their tiny landing pad, and one part overwhelming concern for Steve’s mortality.

It was worse this time because it was now clear that the kitten, whom Bucky had torn the house apart looking for, must have scarpered. It brought Bucky down an extra notch, a notch he didn’t have to rest on. He didn’t say it, but Steve could read him like a book. Bucky was sad and angry.

Last night Steve had slept next to what could have been an actual ice box and not, in fact, his life partner. Bucky had been as rigid, as unyielding as a stone. He now also carried that stupid corgi pillow around with him everywhere as if to taunt Steve. Blueberry had slept in their bedroom last night as well, which was normally a no-go, but apparently _fuck Steve_; Rules were garbage when Bucky was feeling bad.

Steve felt bad too! God, they’d lost a cat that was barely old enough to poop itself. He felt terrible! Poor thing was probably out in the world, wondering where the next waystation was for sub-par food and tepid water. Steve threw his duffel across the room. It landed with a thump by the bedroom door. He yanked at the duvet on the bed and began wrangling it into some kind of rhombus shape. He’d made the bed earlier but Bucky and Blueberry must have rolled around on it or something, because it was lumpy and bumpy again. He tucked in the corners, then fluffed up the pillows. He picked up Bucky’s dirty clothing and wrapped it up with his own. He’d do the laundry before he left. He wasn’t _that_ much of a jerk.

When he closed the laundry basket lid, he heard something. A faint scratching. He stilled, ears perked up. He turned back to the basket. Something was rustling around, against the woven bamboo.. Steve paused, considered his options, then grabbed the entire basket with both hands and lifted it high into the air.

The kitten looked up at him, clearly too surprised to even take a stab at hissing or running off. Steve stared back at it, the basket now held over his head like a sacrifice to the god of clean underwear. “Hello,” Steve said to the miniscule kitten. “You’ve been very sneaky, haven’t you?”

The cat just stared up at him with its yellow eyes. He very slowly lowered the basket to the floor. The cat was watching him, pushed into the corner as it was. “Were you in here all night and all day? You must be hungry.” The cat opened its mouth to probably shriek at him, but was interrupted by a face-engulfing yawn. It yawned so wide it lost its balance and rolled to the side.

Steve crouched down. “You're scared. Bet you’ve been awake for way too long, pal.” The kitten mewed and rubbed a paw over its face. Its head drooped and Steve took his chance. He leaned forward and gently scooped the tiny creature into his hand. “You’re so small,” Steve whispered, holding the little guy up. Either Steve had massive hands, or the kitten was truly the smallest on earth. “Let’s take you down to the kitchen,” he said and pulled the cat close against his chest.

—

Bucky had been watching TV in the living room, his cloud of rage seemingly making the room itself dark. “And he says I’m the drama queen,” Steve muttered when he caught sight of the drapes all closed up in there. Steve went to the kitchen and wondered what to do first. “Water,” he said, and went to get a fresh saucer. He filled it up by the sink.

The tick-ticking of Blueberry’s nails indicated she was on her way. She came padding into the kitchen, ears alert and then yipped when she spied the white blob on Steve’s arm. The kitten mewled, but was too weak to do much else.

Steve gently placed him on the counter, near the saucer. The cat didn’t do much more than complain.

“Hmm,” Steve thought about it, then dipped his finger in the water. He gently dabbed the kitten’s nose and mouth. The cat’s tongue lapped at the wetness, then it opened its eyes blearily. “I know you’re sleepy, but some water might help you feel better,” Steve murmured. He was hunched over the counter, his body like a bluff overlooking the sea.

The kitten mewled and got to its feet. He wandered over to the water and proceeded to climb into it and start drinking. “That’s probably a food safety violation,” Steve hummed, watching the kitten lap at the water, “But I’ll allow it.”

He watched the cat soak up the water it must have been craving all night, poor thing. Blueberry whined and scrabbled at Steve’s leg. He looked down and she swiveled her ears around in question.

“Sorry, girl,” Steve said, “You freak him out too much.” She whined and batted her paws against Steve’s pant leg as if she were having a teenage tantrum. _Let me see him!_ She seemed to be saying. _I love him!_

The kitten shook itself of the water in its fur and clambered off the saucer. It looked up at Steve, hissed, then mewed again.

“Hungry?” Steve went over to the opposite counter where they’d put the wet food.

He gently placed the plate in front of the cat. It growled and snarled at the food.

“It’s all we’ve got, pal,” Steve sighed, and placed his elbow on the counter so as to rest his chin on his hand. The cat made a series of mewling _‘mya-mya-me’_s in complaint. Then it sniffed closer to the food.

“There you go,” Steve exhaled when the cat finally started nibbling at the wet food. It made the most adorable ‘nyam-nyam’ sounds, complaining about the shoddy service but unable to draw itself away. The little guy polished off the food and sat back to lick his paws.

His belly was rounded, barely larger than an egg. He was kind of cute when he wasn’t trying to slash at Steve’s eyes. Maybe now he was fat and fed, he’d allow Steve to move him.

“We need a cat house. A cat hotel,” Steve grumbled to himself. He _could_ put the kitten back in its plastic carrier, but then what if it needed to use the litter tray?

Steve decided he didn’t care. He wanted to keep the kitten close. “C’mere,” he said gently and slid the now sleepy and fat kitten into his hand. The cat gave a weak protest before licking its paw. “Let’s figure something out.”

—

An hour later, Bucky emerged from the living room cave he’d buried himself in to find Steve in the kitchen, on the floor, taping cardboard boxes together.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Steve jumped. He twisted, tape in hand.

The hodge-podge of cardboard that was taped together into a circle didn’t look much like anything. Bucky scowled at it. It looked like a child’s attempt at a shitty walled city with no doors and flimsy workmanship. Inside the standing brown cardboard wall there was a section for the litter tray, a semi-walled-off area for food and water, and a few of Blueberry’s blankets padding all of the floor inside the shoddy cardboard enclosure.

And there, right in the middle of the mess was a sleeping, purring ball of white fluff atop his tower of cotton and wool.

Bucky’s eyes widened. “The cat!” he said. “Where was he?” he moved closer to Steve and looked over the mess being made. “Were you fuckin’ hiding him from me?”

Steve frowned, “No. I was building him a play pen.”

Bucky crouched down.

Blueberry yipped.

“Oh,” Bucky peered at her from the other side of the cat city. “This is where you’ve been hiding, missy.”

Blueberry’s tongue lolled out happily and she flopped her head from side-to-side.

“Where was he?” Bucky said after another long moment.

Steve taped up the last wall, ripping the tape with his teeth and getting some of it stuck to the floor and not the cardboard. “Upstairs, behind the laundry basket,” Steve said quietly, peeling what he could off the tile.

Bucky nodded slowly, watching the kitten’s breathing. “The one place I would never go, huh?”

Steve gathered up his X-acto blade, scissors and the many types of tape he’d used to mash this cat play pen thing together. It… wasn’t pretty, but it looked good enough to keep the cat in place.

“He was tired. He ate and drank a little. I don’t know, he might be okay after a rest.”

Bucky nodded. He looked at Steve beside him.

Steve was studiously gathering his supplies and stacking the left over trash from his cutting session.

“I’m still pissed,” Bucky muttered. “I’m…still mad you didn’t tell me about the mission. And I’m still pissed everyone else knew and no one mentioned a thing. And this cat situation ain’t making it easier.”

Steve paused. “I know,” he said. They both watched the kitten roll onto its back and bare its belly. Blueberry was obsessed, just watching the kitten from her not-so-great-but-it’ll-do vantage point. Being a stubby-footed corgi wasn’t giving her much of a height advantage.

“But I still love you,” Bucky grumped softly.

Steve, slouched there on the kitchen tile like a kid after an afternoon of too much excitement, looked at him. He watched Bucky shift, eyes on the cat.

“I know, Buck.” He said softly. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> More to come! Thanks for reading. :)


End file.
